That's a Crazy Idea, Let's Talk About It or You're STILL Wrong August 2022 Blog

 

 

That's a Crazy Idea, Let's Talk About It

or You're STILL Wrong,

Mykel's August 2022 Blog

by Mykel Board

We live in a technological universe in which we are always communicating. And yet we have sacrificed conversation for mere connection. --Sherry Turkle

Knowledge nowadays, is a matter of reaffirming what we already believe. There is no real conversation. --Stephen L. Carter

To get real diversity of thought, you need to find the people who genuinely hold different views and invite them into the conversation. --Adam Grant

We all lose when bullying and personal attacks become a substitute for genuine conversation and principled disagreement. --Alicia Garza

I've got tons of Nazi friends. David Duke and all the Nazis totally think I rock... No offence, Nazis, I don't want to hurt your feelings, but I don't like you. I like Jews. –Gavin McInnes

=============================

It’s a great beer shit. More than the release of pain. More than the emptying of too-fullness. Just a slight push and… SPLOT! … downward relief so fulfilling it turns on itself and splashes upward. It must be close to what women feel when they give birth. A giant human turdlike mass… a vaginal shit that cries and squirms... a relief of pain so wonderful you carry it with you for days… months… years... to come… thinking back… Wow! That was great!

As for my massive rectal birth: This is gonna take half a roll of toilet paper. I reach for the first sheets, ball them up and start wiping… I feel nothing… like scraping mud off a pair of boots. Fuck, it’s all over my hand… under the nails… over my thumb, embedded in whatever that piece of skin is called between the base of one finger and the next.

Next bundle of paper… Ahhh, I can feel the sphincter… the little circle of muscle... the release point… the anal vagina that births a pleasure that gives orgasm a run for its money.

I feel around... feel each wrinkle of that muscle... wiping away debris and dingle-berries. Ah, the tight… one fold… the next fold… the next… Ouch! What’s this? A bulge… It hurts… sticks out like something that belongs inside was pushed out with the giant turds… something that shouldn’t be there. It’s smooth, covered with slime… Using my middle finger, I wiggle it back and forth… push it inside and clamp tight. I run my finger around again. It’s gone, replaced with a perfect wrinkled circle.

Whew.

I check in the mirror for any cheek splashes… wipe away a dot here… a brown streak there... pull up and finish getting dressed for the day. Next comes a cup of coffee, poured from the refrigerated pitcher where I keep the percolator left overs. BLAM!into the microwave. Two and a half minutes… aaaahhhh. A beershit and a cup of coffee. Maybe life isn’t so bad after all.

As I drink the coffee, I check facebook, and try to think of snappy answers to all those people who’ve said they’ve had enough of me… but have not as yet blocked me.

Here’s a new one… from a friend who I’ve known about 40 years. Now she’s fed up. “Mykel,” she says, “It’s time I take a vacation from you. I’ve had enough for a while.”

Aahhh, I relearn a much-needed lesson: Some friends should not be facebook friends. And…

Fuck! The second shit. It always hits about half an hour after the first. I can predict. Half the load… with a consistency more like yogurt than cottage cheese.

Okay, okay, I’ll go. The porcelain goddess wins. Facebook loses.

This one takes a little more push than the last… but… but… but… aaaaaah! Yogurt as predicted, a lighter brown than should be healthy… but oh so good. More paper… wipe… wipe again… What’s that? It’s back. That rectal ‘roid popped out again like a rubbed nipple. What the fuck? I thought I’d gotten rid of it.

After I clean myself, I reach for the CVS Oral Analgesic. Nothing like oral to kill the pain of anal. Then I push it back up into its rightful home and pull up my pants

Returning to the desk and facebook, I sit gently.

Here’s a message from Sid Yiddish. He’s asking about my friend, performance artist, prankster, and noise musician, Boyd Rice.

HALT! TECH TALK. LAST CENTURY VERSION: I need to explain something. A lock groove is a groove on vinyl records, usually at the end of each side. It locks the needle in place, so it doesn’t go running into the label. It’s not a spiral like a usual groove, but rather a circle, keeping the needle in place. If it’s used before the end of the record, it sounds like the record is skipping and playing the same thing over and over again.

Back to Boyd Rice.. Back to Boyd Rice…. Back to Boyd Rice

Whatta guy, that Boyd is. The first time I heard of him was when he made a record as a “band” called NON. He sent me a vinyl copy in the days before “download” had anything to do with music.

Every groove of the record was a lock groove. In order to play it, you had to manually lift up the needle and move it from one groove to the next. It was wonderful frustration. Immediately, I thought. Here is a man after my evil heart.

I learned even more when I saw him in front of an “art piece.” You know that awful LOVE sign? The eye-rolling tilted “O”? Oy vey!

So what punker art than to create a LOVE sign with a universal symbol of hate? It’s just genius.

Yeah, that’s Boyd Rice next to his artwork. The original, as I remember, was a sculpture, but I can’t find a picture that version.

I finally get to meet the guy when he has a performance in NYC... sometime last century. He affects a kind of SS leather coat look with no insignia... just the look. Like my mafia fedora trenchcoat look or Sid Yiddish’s talis and tzitzit masked Hassid look. An image... like an actor… a performer…. always on stage.

Boyd “performs” by making noise on some electronic machine or other. I don’t remember the details. I do remember talking to him after the show.

“I saw that LOVE thing you did,” I tell him. “Just genius… use some cliche and turn it into its opposite.”

Boyd shakes his head. “They just don’t get it, Mykel. Irony is lost…” It’s a great conversation… about music, art, and the loss of irony.

“Boyd Rice is a bad man,” says Sid Yiddish in his facebook message. “A friend of mine told me.”

Ah, his friend must’ve seen the LOVE ART and figured… sure the guy’s a Nazi. Our mutual friend outs him to Sid.

My fuckin’ God… It’s IRONY… humor. Wise up! Think punk! Think about the conversation with Boyd Rice. THAT’s what I want to write about: conversation.

Flash to California: A film-maker pal wants to do a day-in-the-life documentary on Gavin McInnes, founder of the Proud Boys^®. From Canada, Gavin once played in a punk band, Anal Chinook. My pal wondered if I had any connections to him. I didn’t then, but now I do.

Through a circuitous route I got in touch with Gavin. We went out for a beer and snacks at an Irish bar in Manhattan.

“I want a picture,” says Gavin. “Put your hat on and try to look like Mykel Board.”

We talk about punk rock. We talk about how people just have no idea what real punkrock is. How my friends in Hungary thought the Dead Kennedys were seriously advocating pooricide when they sang, Kill The Poor. We laugh.

“Are you still a homo?” Gavin asks me.

“I was never a homosexual,” I answer, “but most of the guys I’ve had sex with have been homosexuals.”

He laughs.

Gavin drinks Bud. I drink Lagunitas. We agree on censorship and how what used to be topics for discussion are now topics to be censored. We disagree on immigration. He wants to keep them out. I want to open the borders… make it no different going to the US from Mexico than from going to New York from New Jersey. We disagree on guns. He likes ‘em. I think the big ones need to be banned. We disagree on welfare. He thinks people should have to work to EARN their money. I think if rich people want diamond-studded Maseratis, then they can work for them. Meanwhile, most of rich people’s money should go to support those without money-- whether they choose to work or not. Gavin has “issues” with transfolks. I think that they’re among the sexiest people in the world. (I didn’t call the second ARTLESS record Boy With A Cunt for nothing.)

The conversation is deep, but fun… lots of laughs… lots of overlap… I felt a friendship and liked the guy. I still like him and hope we can drink together again. We agreed on a few things. Disagreed on a few. Sometimes just talked about stuff where there was nothing to agree with or disagree. I tell him I could never have been a Proud Boy^®.

“Those guys don’t jerk off!” I complain.

He laughs.

During the discussion, I mention that I’d read that he quit the Proud Boys. I ask him if it was because they were getting too hot to handle.

“No,” he tells me, “I’d said some pretty extreme stuff. You know, like punk rock. Courts and juries don’t get the punk rock mind... Kill The Poor. You know what I’m talking about.

Lawyers would use my quotes like “choke a tranny” literally. It could cost those guys some time in jail. I thought it was best for me divorce myself from the group in order to save it.

Wow! I had completely misunderstood. I misread an act of altruism for an act of ass-saving. I’m glad we talked about it. New respect for the guy... 

At the end of the evening, Gavin pays for both of us and we both leave with a smile. Like I said, I like the guy and hope to see him again sometime.

After I get home, I post the picture of Gavin and me on facebook and say what I great time I had drinking and talking with him.

The reaction comes swift... and hard. The same stuff I put up with Boyd Rice… only stronger… harder. Like the returning hemorrhoid I thought I’d stuffed away.

My “friends” list shrinks by nearly 100. Those who don’t leave fill the picture comments with How could yous and You’re turning alt-rights and… and… and...

Yeah, there are a few commenters I admire. They want to talk. Especially one on the left and one on the right… but the majority are too outraged to discuss… only ready to complain.

I try to explain that I like people… especially smart people with a sense of humor. It doesn’t work and it’s not long before Godwin’s Law hits.

“Sure,” I answer, “I used to go to the local kneipe with Herr Goebbels. He never let me pay for a Hofbrau.”

Pretty snappy, huh? Huh?

Then it hits! I’m as guilty as the others. Instead of conversing, listening, taking a drink, inhaling, stroking my chin… and maybe changing my mind, I’m more concerned with snappy answers than learning anything. That concern baits snappy questions and feeds on itself like a hemorrhoid feeds on a steady diet of beer shits.

SCENE SHIFT: I hate the telephone. It’s an evil intrusion… calling you away from what you’re doing… demanding an answer NOW! But when I find myself in a quandary, I pick up the phone and call Dorothy Parker, the smartest person I know.

Since she’s dead, I never worry about her calling me at inopportune moments. I have the upper hand… er… voice.

“Dorothy,” I say, “you gotta help me. Suddenly, I’m finding myself as my own best enemy. I complain about people not willing to converse anymore, just looking for snappy answers... Something to throw out without thinking… for a laugh. In reality, I never learn anything. I never change my mind. I’m just interested in throwing out something witty.

“Wit has truth in it; wise-cracking is simply calisthenics with words,” Dorothy says.

“So I’m learning,” I tell her. “I’m trying to learn how to listen and have a peaceable discussion. I want to learn from people who want to learn from people. I’m tired of ideologues who stick to the party line come Trump or Nancy Pelosi. I don’t want that. I want to converse.”

“You can’t teach an old dogma new tricks,” she says.

“But what should I do?” I beg. “Where should I go?”

“The Algonquin,” she says. “Get a roundtable, eat, drink, talk about things... and listen.”

BINGO!

So now, slightly less often than once a month, I meet with friends and strangers in the lobby of the Algonquin hotel. Poets, musicians, thinkers… lesbians, homosexuals, people in their 20s and people in their 80s. We talk. When I’m tempted to jump in and listen to myself, I bite the inside of my thumb or squeeze my asscheeks together until the hemorrhoid hurts.

But slowly, ever-so-slowly, I listen and learn. Gavin and Boyd… come and join us! Smart people listening to each other. That’s what we need. I’ll shut up now and see what the other folks have to say.

See you in hell. 

MB

aka

Mykel Board

ENDNOTES: [You can contact me on facebook or by email at mykelboard@gmail.com. Through the post office: send those... er... private DVDs..or music or zines... or anything else (legal only!) to: Mykel Board, POB 137, New York, NY 10012-0003. If you like my writing, you can be notified when anything new is available. Send me an email with SUBSCRIBE in the subject line. Back blogs and columns are at https://mykelsblog.blogspot.com]

→ Join the conversation dept. If you’re in the NYC area or can be, we want YOU at the Algonquin Round Table, especially if you’re not white, not old, or/and not binary. We need to increase our diversity. If you’re interested in joining us, send me an email, and I’ll put you on the list. Just show up some month, introduce yourself, and converse.

→ Is that a handy wipe in your river, or are you happy to see me? Science News reports that an island the size of two tennis courts and composed entirely of used handy wipes (the Brits call ‘em wet wipes) has appeared in the Thames River that goes through London. Government ministers have asked people to stop using the wipes and are considering a ban. A Labor Party MP said she had visited the site: "I've ... stood on it -- it's a meter deep or more in places.” It's actually changed the course of the Thames."
    The Environmental Minister asked citizens not to flush the wipes. My question, if you don’t flush them, just where do you put them?

→ Accidents will happen dept: The British tabloid The Daily Mirror tells us about a man who may never be able to use his penis again after his partner accidentally sprayed expanding foam inside his urethra.The man was struggling with impotence and had been putting different items into the opening of his penis in a bid to stay firm. But his latest attempt ended in horror when his partner tried to use the straw of a can of insulation spray to keep him erect.
    His partner said she accidentally hit the button on top of the can, sending the foam into his penis. There, it hardened and “became anchored."
    Doctors had to cut a new opening between the man's scrotum and his anus to urinate and said he must pass a psychiatric test in order to qualify for “reconstructive surgery.”

See you in hell, redux,

MB

LINK TRADE DEPARTMENT:

I read that the search engines like lots of links... and it's also nice to support my friends and enemies in their blogs. So facebook me or email me if you have a blog, webpage or something else to connect to. I add you. You add me.

Here's a start:

You can see Gavin on Censored.tv... maybe the only place he's not blocked.

There’s a great interview with Sid Yiddish on YouTube. You can check it out here.

Here’s Richard Goldberg: goldberg.wordpress.com

Poetry and humor fans will like Justin Martin in The Latency

And my friend Mike R has a nice site with recipe hits from the past! (He cooked for me once... great stuff.) Check out Yesterday's Recipes.

And here's one by a member of ANTI-SEEN... a tour diary of sorts.

Andy Shelton has an interesting blog here.

Savage Hippie is a guy who has been YouTubing for a long time. Our opinions largely overlap... but he complains that I'm a Communist. I'm not! I'm a communist.

Chris Stecher publishes a zine called PRECIS. You can see the back issue links there... and he promises a new issue soon.

George Fertakis has a very nice graphics-heavy blog... with music and books featured prominently. If there’s no link here (I can’t find it temporarily), then Google… er… Duckduckgo him for information.

And my long-term pal Sid Yiddish contributes with his Mishegas Master Blog.

And connect to TRUST Zine, a long-running German punk zine… that STILL PRINTS!!! Yeah, they have a website too… of course! It’s here.

Here are a couple video links.

This from Jon Cox https://squelchchamber1.bandcamp.com/album/down-so-low

And this one from my very long-time friend Roger Armstrong.

Jim Testa moved his long running zine, Jersey Beat, to the blogosphere awhile back. You can read it here. Jim also recommended a kind of unique album… in a style you don’t see to much of these days… or any days. Neo-Hassidic Rock Opera. You can stream the album here.

Kyle Nonneman is in prison in Portland. At least he can’t be kidnapped by the secret police… I think. I post his blog for him, he can’t do it from the klink. Lots of stuff about noise metal… and some very weird politics that will either fascinate or repulse you… or both.

My long time pal, Jim Hayes rightfully complained about my leaving out his blog. He’s a great writer, so it was a tragic omission. Here it is.

Oh yeah, then there’s me. I have a blog of stuff I’ve written mostly from last century. You might enjoy it. Then again, you might not. It’s here.

Let me know if you have a blog… or a print zine… or a YouTube and want to be added to the list. You show me yours… you’ve already seen mine. god@mykelboard.com

Inner Beauty or Mykel's Post MRR Column 22

YOU'RE STILL WRONG

POST MRR COLUMNS

Post MRR Column 22 aka

Inner Beauty

by Mykel Board

Problem, problem

Problem, the problem is you

What you gonna do?

--Sex Pistols

It was more out of place than Hillary Clinton at an anti-war rally. On facebook... Zine Chatter... an answer to a random comment about the value of old issues of Maximum Rock'n'Roll... some random feminist:

I've never met you Mykel, I don't think I'd want to. But I need to ask you when are you going to get over it. Let MRR go. Get on with your life. Instead of harping on the past... always looking for answers OUT THERE...on the outside. Examine yourself. You'll find the problem there. Stop looking out. Start looking in. You'll find the problem inside.

In haiku, they call the discovery of a MOMENT... a unique insight into something... something usually banal or taken for granted... an a-hah! moment. Finding these moments are one my life's many joys. This facebook moment, though, is not an a-hah! moment. It is a huh? moment... I just don't get it.

Then, I do.

This is how America works. If you get sick, it's YOUR fault. It's not the poison spray on your vegetables, the antibiotics in your meat, the sulfur dioxide in the air... it's YOU. You smoke. You don't watch your diet. You don't take vitamins. YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE. If you're poor, it's YOUR fault. Not your race, or the lack of meaningful (or any) work, or your parents' income. YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE. Don't look to the government for answers... look inside yourself.

Flash ahead to my worst hangover of the month... a brainbuster... a stomach pumper... a body wrencher. Sunday morning... thrown out of bed by the need to pray to the porcelain goddess... I turn... fall the two or three feet from the couch where I passed out last night.

I'd returned from The Patriot... best bar in New York. She was back.. that bartender who sets her nipples on fire and lets the birthday boy blow them out. I only wish it was my birthday. Whose birthday was it? I forget.

No time to worry about that now. Naked, fresh from bed... I'm kneeling next to Big Mariam... the porcelain goddess. I just manage to reach her. I trace yesterday's beer... and Buffalo wings... and dollar hotdogs... and sliders... follow them on their passage from my stomach... heaving in a painful bulk... upwards... around the bend... burning... burning... into my throat... exploding from my mouth into the toilet... the force pushing... prodding upwards... into my nose... filling my sinuses with an acrid poison.... running out my nose... dripping downwards... self-processed food... mixing with yesterday's liquid remains... dripping into the toilet as my stomach empties its contents.

A post-orgasmic collapse... facedown in the toilet. I don't want to die Elvis style... I won't get a postage stamp with my picture on it. I've got to lift my head out of the mire. It's getting hard to breathe. Small chunks of things hit my cheek... puke-filled water squirms up my nose... I slump... fall back on the bathroom floor.

I lay prone, barely aware of the hard tile and vomit splotches. Then it hits me... I have just emptied my insides. The contents of ME! Right there, available for my examination.

Using the toilet rim, I pull myself up to a half-sitting position. I look inside: the beer-colored former contents of my stomach. Great chunks of red, green and brown float at their respective weight levels. Blotches of mucus... translucent and viscous... rise to the top.

I reach into the slough.

Plunging my hand downwards, I scoop up the most solid of the goop. Some chunks of red... a few identifiable peas and carrot pieces... something white and very thin... shaped like a babushka. I bring my hand toward my face... my nose, now clear enough to smell... the unmistakable smell of puke but with overtones of beer and jalapeño.

I stick out my tongue and touch it to the mess in my palm. It stings-- not like eating a Mexican pepper stings, but like the up-chucked bile of too much pepperoni stings. I suck some of the glop into my mouth... re-chew... re-swallow... the ultimate human recycling. I eat more of it... Smear it over my face... my body... rub it between my legs... the liquid is cool and sticky against my skin.

I scoop more from the toilet. Suck it in... something gets caught... goes down the wrong pipe... I cough up... spew more... this time over my naked chest... Another scoop... this one with more green than the last. Look! A kernel of corn... whole... undigested. I suck it in, chewing well, making sure next time out it'll look different.

Then, it hits like a punch, knocking the wind out of me. This is pain... not the nausea of vomit... but the pain of a rumbling large intestine... begging for release... a piercing exploding pain... a pain like giving birth... a screaming bulge that forces me to stand... slide in the floor vomit... skin a knee in the slop... stand again... just poised... frustrated sphincter bulging. My insides tear to fight the release. Relax, don't fight it... push... a drip.. a drop... two. Push more... a stream squirts downward splashing itself and the vomit below... up onto my hovering twin cheeks.

More... great gushes... clods, wads, globs... assonance up the ass... or out of the ass... Here it comes... it's ripping me open.. a huge hard one... like it's coming out sideways... bigger than my thigh. Down it comes, like a soldier whose parachute didn't open... like a building cornice in an earthquake... like an angel, fallen from God's kingdom to hell.

I look between my legs at the mess in the toilet. My ripped rectum bleeds softly into the morass... the red mixing with the shit brown and multicolored heave-itude... swirling in a psychedelic blend... It's postpartum ecstasy. I do nothing but sit... breathe... eyes closed... the ebullience of evacuation outweighing the pain of my torn sphincter.

For a second... a minute... an infinity... I sit in bliss. Then I realize what I have to do. I reach between my legs... into the liquescent rainbow swirling below. I strain the liquid through my hands picking up one solid log... about the length of a slice of pizza... the width of a hearty twig. I roll it between my hands, like making a snake out of clay. Faster and faster... it breaks off, the top end... spinning... leaping over my leg on to the bathroom floor. I try again. Picking up a similar piece... a bit shorter and thicker... sturdier than the other... made of stronger stuff... I think about how this fine turd was once a Buffalo wing or maybe a piece of calamari.

Holding it in one hand, I bring it close to my nose. The obvious line would be it smells like shit... It doesn't. It smells like puke. The contents of my stomach... at least nasally... overcome the contents of my large intestines.

“This came from me,” I think. “My body made this, changing through some mysterious process... things I put in... coming out on their own. How did my body choose... separate nutrients... change colors? What happened and why did this particular turd decide to leave me at this particular moment?

I push forward on the toilet seat... lean my chest against my thighs... turd in hand, I reach back and push... relax... push again... reinserting that product... product of my body... back into its recent home.

It feels good... this fecal dildo... pressing the prostate from the inside.

Reaching back into the multi-colored stew, I look for tiny bits... grape-sized. One-by-one, I grab them... lean over... force them back inside... where they came from. I reach down and grab another one. This one breaks... shatters into tiny nubs... like Oriental nipples... before it can re-pass the sphincter threshold.

I put the pieces into my mouth. They taste... neutral... like white bread... like mashed potatoes... like rice... like nothing at all. Swallowing, I wonder how my body will treat its already-sorted waste... now a new entry. Will it be confused? Will it change it back to a Buffalo wing or a piece of calamari?

I lean back again and reach for a bigger coprolith... this one the size and shape of a large carrot. Perfect. Leaning forward once more, I force it back into its ancestral home... past the prostate... tickling, eroticizing... I feel my little friend rise between my legs.

Using more of the water as a lubricant... I rub myself hard... harder... One hand manipulating the excremental plug, the other manipulating me... yes... yes... yes! I spurt hard and white, adding yet another color to the psychedelic solution.

Yes, I've seen it... the real me. And it made me come!

Ok, I've done it. Looked inside... examined myself... penetrated my inner core... tasted, smelled, reused. I've analyzed and anal-ized. Macro-ed and micro-ed. Seen it all and... without a trace... have not found the cause of my discontent. I have not found the reason the stand-on-your-own-two-feet-personal-responsibility conservatives say I'm poor. Or the reason MRR lied to me. I've looked inside myself... gotten as close as I can to the inner me and the problem is not there.

Get it MRR and libertarian conservatives? Get it anti-welfare-ites and get-a-job-ers? Sometimes the problem is NOT inside. Sometimes the problem is outside. Sometimes we've got nothing to do with our problems. We can't control the circumstances. Sometimes it's just luck. Sometimes we're lied to, abused, taken advantage of and it IS NOT OUR FAULT. It's NOT from us! It's NOT INSIDE. Problem? Problem? The problem is you!

ENDNOTES: [You can contact me by email at god@mykelboard.com. Through the post office: send those... er... private DVDs..or music or zines... or anything else (legal only!) to: Mykel Board, POB 137, New York, NY 10012-0003. If you like my writing, you can be notified when anything new is available by subscribing to the MYKEL'S READERS Yahoo group readmboard-subscribe@yahoogroups.com]

-->Trans-racial dept: You know about the Spokane Washington organizer for the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People who was outed by her parents as White. She claims to be “trans-racial.”

Amazingly, she was supported by a ton of liberals who said that trans-race was fine. Anybody can be any race they choose... just by saying so.

I don't think so.

-->Trans-racial part 2 dept: Then there is Dylann Roof who kills nine people in a church in South Carolina. The reason? They're black. Dylann doesn't like blacks very much.

Hah, the joke's on him. He didn't know that the people he shot were actually WHITE. Trans-racial... you could ask any of them. (Now, you can't.) They'd tell you right out they were white. Whoops, I guess Dylann didn't know. You gotta ask questions first, THEN shoot. Otherwise, you may be shooting the wrong race. Right, Dylann?

-->Whoops part 2 DEPT: The US Dietary Guidelines Advisory Committee no longer classifies cholesterol as a "nutrient of concern." The decision, which reverses four decades of advice, reflects recent research suggesting that eating foods high in cholesterol does not significantly raise cholesterol levels in the blood. All those people avoiding the vitamins and sight-saving lutein of egg yolks... sorry about that.

-->TEXAS Drinkin' DEPT: Quintin Walker was suspended from high school and barred from graduation. Why? School officials saw a can of Bud Lite in a cooler in his truck. His mother had packed the cooler for a family picnic, and Quinton was just bringing back the leftovers.

Bud Lite? It's not like he had beer or something.

-->TEXAS Drinkin' Part 2 Dept: Meanwhile, also in Texas, a new University of Texas study found that drinking two cups of coffee a day lowers the risk of erectile dysfunction by 42 percent. There's no word on what a can of Bud Lite does for that.

-->TROLLS DEPT: Richard Valdes, a former employee of right-wing activist James O'Keefe, reports that he (O'Keefe) instructed undercover operatives to participate in BLACK LIVES MATTER protests and shout things like "I wish I could just kill some of these cops." Then fellow right-wingers use the quotes to show that #Blacklivesmatter is really a bunch of advocates for cop-killing.

->Keeping the Pressure on Dept: I want to thank reader George Metesky for suggesting a continuing Bring Back Mykel effort directed at Maximum Rock'n'Roll for their firing me as their contribution to the world of censorship. Send your comments to mrr@maximumrocknroll.com (or post on their facebook page) with the subject line: BRING BACK MYKEL! Let me know how they answer.

-->And: I'm still on a massive clean-up/divest kick. I'm giving away DVDs, cassettes, VHS videos, CDs, posters, and a few 7-inch singles. Just pay separate shipping and handling. Details at: MykelsGiveaway

-end

YOU'RE STILL WRONG Post MRR Columns: Number 3

YOU'RE STILL WRONG

POST MRR COLUMNS Number 3

aka How You Think

by Mykel Board

(Note: Parts of this column have appeared in different form on the STREET CARNAGE website.)

“Ok class,” says the young sexy teacher. “If there are 10 birds on a telephone wire and Farmer John shoots two of them, how many are left?”

Little Tommy raises his hand. The teacher calls on him.

“None,” he says. “the bullets would scare the other birds and they'd fly away.”

“Actually,” says the teacher, “the correct answer is 8... but I like the way you think.”

“I got one for you,” answers Tommy. “There are two women eating ice cream cones. One takes deep bites and eats it right down. The second one slowly licks the top of the cone, swirling her tongue around the tip and then slow widening her lips to suck in the goodness.... Which one is married?”

The young teacher is visibly embarrassed, but she decides to stand her ground. “The second woman, of course.” she answers.

“No,” says Tommy, “the one with the wedding ring. But I like the way you think.”

--Old Joke

It's the mother of all beershits... a massive movement... I trace it inch by inch... starting on the lower right side like appendicitis. The massive ball of excrement moves inch by peristaltic inch through my large intestines... upwards... from right to left... downwards... exquisitely... to the final sphincter where it forces a relaxation and downward blast... like a rocket exhaust... propelling me upwards toward the ceiling... an anal orgasm... After landing, I tilt to the left, raising one cheek from the pot... to examine my accomplishment. Wow! All that! It's like giving birth. I sit down flat again and allow a few straggling turdlets to make their final escape. When I stand up, I see that the toilet seat is covered in squished shit. So is my naked ass. I guess that when I twisted to examine my achievement, fecal remains must've clung and rubbed off on the seat. When I righted myself, I squeezed them down fouling the toilet and myself.

CLICK: Belly sweat collects in the folds, forms little rivulets... puddling in my navel... spilling over... streaming midrifly downwards... curling... running through pubes like swamp water through mangroves. Collecting salt to feed my already chafed groin...turning the pink to black-speckled red. One. Two. Three showers a day. Doesn't help. As soon as I step out, the heat and humidity again start the sweat. And the atmosphere refuses to evaporate it. A kind of diaper rash covers every crevice from knee to navel. Mosquito bites cover the rest.

I start writing this column in Georgetown Guyana. Both paragraphs above happened here. Readers over 40 might remember Guyana from The Jonestown Massacre in the late 1970s. The rest probably think it's some place in Africa.

If you imagine South America as a breast, halfway between the shoulder and the nipple... facing the Caribbean Sea... is Guyana. But I don't want to write about Guyana here. You can read it in my travel blog or in a special article I did for Street Carnage.

I want to go back to that joke at the beginning of the column and tell you that I DON'T like the way you think. Self-evident logic makes as much sense as 8 birds on a phone wire after two are shot. Self-evident logic is wrong. What your life experience has taught you is mistaken. I want to take a look at some of your thinking. Examine it carefully. But you've been warned. After the examination, you might find your ass in a mess.

FIRST CASE: What inspired this revelation was my pre-Guyana visit to Trinidad. In New York City, there are no Costcos, SamsClubs or other giant warehouse companies. I never had the experience. In Trinidad there is at least one: PriceSmart, a San Diego based chain specializing in warehouse stores in the Caribbean.

I go shopping there with Randy, an oft-mentioned pal from ANTI-EVERYTHING, the only punk band in the country. Floor to ceiling metal shelves. Bins, boxes, tables filled with useless things... and one or two things I might need one or two of. There are huge hunks of meat, whole cows, unrecognizable pieces of unrecognizable mammals plastic wrapped and ready for massive consumption. (One package says BEEF OXTAILS, and guarantees me it is halal. Aren't ALL beef oxtails halal?)

Why would a family of four buy a half cow? What the hell are you going to do with 240 rolls of toilet paper? But the thinking goes like this:

If I use one roll of toilet paper in a week, then 240 rolls will last me 240 weeks. I'll eventually have to pay for those 240 rolls. So, here they'll cost me 50 cents each, that's $120. If I pay for them one at a time, they'll cost me 75c each. That's $180. I'm saving sixty bucks.

THIS IS SO WRONG! If you have 240 rolls of toilet paper lying around, you'll use twice as much. You'll use it to blow your nose, to wipe up last night's beer puke, to sop the pus up from a broken pimple. You'll throw one to a friend with a cold... here, take this, I've got hundreds more. You'll use a fistful to wipe after that dainty superclean dump. You'd use one sheet, if you only had one roll. Those 240 rolls will last less than half the time and make twice the waste of your one roll a week. With that roll you'd stretch... use less... maybe buy a handkerchief for the occasional sneeze. Your savings are flushed down the toilet.

With food it's worse. You have more, so you eat more. A never ending supply of beef oxtails or whatever else you don't need. Nothing fresh and healthy... only in gross and grosser for it. Sure,if you're having an oxtail barbecue for 20 people, buy at Costco. If you're in Endangered Feces and need Charmin to throw at the crowd, buy at Costco. But if you're just this guy (or gal) and you think that buying a gallon of ice cream for $40 is cheaper than buying a pint for $7.95... WHAT YOU THINK IS WRONG.

SECOND CASE: Right now, the internet in the Guyanese house I'm staying in is down. All the electricity is off. It happens a few times a day-- like in California during the Enron era. I wonder how many times the average Californian was blacked out then. I can just Google it and find out. No I can't. I forgot. There's no electricity. Too bad... NO IT'S NOT!

I can still wonder. Speculate, imagine, use my mind. WONDER is NOT the same as WANT TO KNOW. Wonder is the joy of thinking, imagining, guessing.

I've seen pictures of the Amerindians here in Guyana. They look like the pictures I've seen of the Brazilian headhunters-- or the New Guinea ones that shrunk a Rockefeller's head in the 1960s: Vaguely oriental features, a bowl-cut haircut, loin cloth (probably an evil relic from some Christian missionary), curare-tipped spears, a bone through the nose. Just what you'd expect. I wonder if the local Indians were cannibals in per-Christian times. I wonder what cooked human flesh tastes like... but, I DO NOT WANT TO KNOW.

Google and Apple have destroyed wonder. Everyone and her pet pig walks around i-plugged into Wikipedia. If I wonder out loud what animal has the largest penis, BLAM, someone comes up with THE BLUE WHALE at 8 feet. End of wonder. Before I can fantasize about some unknown rodent dragging a 5 foot tube of flesh around... bigger than its body. My wonder's been killed. Like my foreskin, it's something I can never get back. I want to wonder without wanting to know. WHAT YOU THINK IS WRONG.

LAST CASE: Cut to a typical Guyanese house. Two stories, wood, the second floor has a covered porch as wide as the building. It's where the parties are... especially here in this house. Jamal, my host, is a gadabout, a man around town, party at his place every night. Beer, rum, and girls.

One of the many things I like about Guyana is the girls. Not that they're so beautiful. Some are. The average Guyanese woman is not average, though they all have some beautiful shade of skin color that puts any white guy/gal to shame. (No wonder tanning salons are so big in America.)

Except for the universally erection-inducing color, the girls here are either spectacular... combining the best of the Indian and the Negro... big eyes, Caribbean S-shape... strong, muscular legs that look like they'd squeeze the life out of you... and you'd love it... OR... ugly as an anal wart, rotund, hairy as a coconut or … so concentration camp skinny you're afraid to touch them. They might break.

I just like the fact that they're THERE! Unlike in many other third world countries-- Gambia, Senegal, Trinidad, for example-- girls go out by themselves... singly... just to lime (hang out). They don't need to be attached to anyone... they just are some of the guys. And many of these girls, not conventionally attractive, have such great personalities, that you WANT to be with them. They've got friends up the ass... as they should.

My favorite bar is a place called Buttsy's. Reminds me of the scummy bars on the Lower East Side when the Lower East Side was good. A couple pool tables, cheap beer ($300, about $1.50US), the kind of loud people others call characters, rather than the kind of loud people others call jocks. Girls as loud as boys. ID? Hah, if you can see over the counter to buy a beer, you buy one. If you can't see over the counter, the guy behind you will give you a boost. At the outside tables, you'll find easy banter among friends-- and friends to be made at the other tables. All they need is a stage and it's CBGB.

Conversation is not about whale penises, but it could be. Lots of laughter, body touching, innuendo. Makes me happy to be here. One of the guys says, let's just buy beer and come over to my place. The party continues... smooth and as easy flowing as a beer shit. That's where we are now. On the balcony, limin', drinking Banks beer. (I know the Beer Advocate doesn't like it, but it's the perfect beer for this hot humid climate... meant to be drunk ice cold.), a bottle of rum and a liter of coke make the rounds. There aren't enough cups, so we use the tops and bottoms of old water bottles to make our own.

“How do you like living in a primitive third world country?” I ask the goddess pouring rum into my half-water bottle.

“Depends on how you count,” she answers with a twinkle in her eye that make my nether parts ooze. It also gets me thinkin'.

Who decides which countries are in which world? Are they in order of average annual income? I don't think so. That would put Saudi Arabia in the first world and Greece in the third. How 'bout majority race? Nope, by that criteria, Japan and Cambodia would be in the same world.

I've heard lefties talk about North countries and South countries, instead of numbered worlds. That doesn't work either. Australia is south of the equator and Afghanistan north. Which one is first world?

How about flush toilets and internet access?

I haven't been in a house here that doesn't have both.

Gap between rich and poor? By that criterion, America would be fifth world... or sixth.

And what is the second world? Anything that used to be SOVIET? Anything with a -STAN at the end?

Has a country ever graduated? Moved up? A former third-worlder now second... or even all the way to first? I don't think so. Countries have moved down: Azerbaijan, for example. Maybe most of the seconds moved to third after the fall of the Soviet empire. Maybe the only second worlders left are Russia, Cuba, North Korea, and whoever the US is attacking at the moment. In any case, I've never heard any country called second world.

I figure is it's a cold war relic. In commie times, America and its friends were the first world. The Soviet Union and its allies were the second world. Everybody else was the third world. These terms stuck. After Russia broke up, the newly independent republics instantly joined the third world-- or the first.

This is just wrong. Countries are NOT in worlds. They are not worlds apart: luxury vs poverty. Flush toilets vs holes in the ground. It's much more complicated than that. Either there are no worlds or there are hundreds of worlds-- not three. WHAT YOU THINK IS WRONG.

This weekend I'll be in Suriname. That's not in Africa either.

ENDNOTES: [You can contact email me (god@mykelboard.com). Postal contact send those... er... private DVDs..or music or zines... or anything else (legal only!) to: Mykel Board, POB 137, New York, NY 10012-0003]

-->How Much Punk Rock Do You Hear in Guyana dept: Most of my time here has been with members of the only punk band in the country: Keep Your Day Job. (How come counties with only one punk band have punk bands with such great names?) I sang an acoustic version of BEER IS BETTER THAN GIRLS ARE and will be a roadie for them in Suriname. In a country with very little live music, and no punk, they've got a tough job ahead. I hope they keep it.

-->Related dept: Those of us old enough to remember the 80s, put down later punkrock as bland and commercial. Green Day? Blink 182? Sellout arena bad punk copies, we'd say. But, for many people (like Keep Your Day Job), they are the bridge between the punk we know and the punk they're going to forge. If it weren't for those bands we dismiss, there'd be NO punkrock in places like Guyana. So we gotta give 'em credit... THEN, we teach 'em about GG Allin.

-->Beer and girls dept: A great man (me) once made a song by rhyming those old gas station posters of 20 Ways Beer Is Better Than Girls. Clearly, the list is a comic lament by some teenage guy who can't get laid and drowns his sour grapes in beer. It's almost feminist in its pathos. But, with the typical sense of humor of feminists, they don't get it.

Now, a Texas beer company has introduced a new beer with the motto: Goes down easy. The reaction has been predictable. Check it out here.

-->Keeping on the pressure dept: If you want to see me back in Maximum Rock'n'Roll (or if you don't) you can tell them directly with an email to: mrr@maximumrocknroll.com You SHOULD contact them.

--end

[My sadly under up-kept travel diary is available at: mykelsdiary.blogspot.com. And you can subscribe to updates, and notification of new columns and other writing by joining my Yahoo group at: http://groups.yahoo.com/neo/groups/readMBoard/]